Yami Bakura's Life Story
by Yamitron
Summary: Bakura recounts to the good people at  the different instances of himself popping up throughout history. From the Guillotine to the Bolsheviks.


Dear stupid website.

Hello. I am Yami Bakura. But anyone with a brain can realize this. The reason why you are reading this (besides the obvious poor choice of clicking the internet link to a fan fiction website. Really fangirls? Stooping to this?) is because I feel my work should be well documented. You all know me now. So therefore, I think my general work throughout history should be known. Herein I make my documentation of my contributions.

My hope and faith in Americans will be permanently dashed if those of you reading this are unaware of the man Henry David Thoreau. He's, in layman's terms, kind of a big deal. No, I was not Thoreau. Even I am not nearly that pretentious. But I was alive at the time. A bloke named Daniel Van Hessle had picked up the ring; I kept the name. The year was 1840.

I was drinking an Irishman under the table at a local pub (no easy task, even for me, I assure you. I think I ended up dying of liver and kidney failure.) when a man with far too much neck beard strolled through the doors. (If you haven't looked up a picture of the man by now, what are you bloody waiting for, an invitation?)

He had the same aura I put out. Full of himself, cocky, over confident. So naturally I talked to him. He fancied himself quite the ladies man. (Although I may have changed his mind once or twice. Ha-ha-ha.) I of course thought him to be the textbook example of what exactly a 'nimrod' is. Nevertheless, I spoke with him, and saw potential. By that point, I knew talent when I saw it. He was a pretentious asshole, but so am I.

We kept running into each other, so one evening I invited him to my cabin. I poured drinks and brought out some pie, and we got to talking.

"Daniel," He said, as he scratched that godawful neck beard. To this day, one of my greatest regrets was not shaving off that goddamned thing. "I'm thinking." There are two words you never want to hear out of Henry D. Thoreau.

It was then that he told me of his plan to build a cabin near Walden Pond, live there for two years, and support himself with just his own two hands. I of course knew what a load of bullshit that was. He would _never_ be able to live on his own. So I sighed and told him point blank that he was an absolute moron. He blinked at me.

"Why in the name of all that is brown liquid and bad for me would you want to do that."

He looked at me seriously and stroked that damn neck beard, as if he was cock of the walk. I was about to cock him in his walk if he touched that damn thing again. But sadly, he might like that. "I simply wish to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived…"

I threw a book at him. "Stop prewriting. That pisses me off." I'm sure he practiced speaking in front of a mirror. Come to think of it, I'm sure he did a lot in front of a mirror. Narcissist. "I'm not cleaning up your messes. If you do this, you _will_ die, you realize this, right."

"What is death, really." He hummed, attempting to be deep.

"Painful. Well painful. And not something your poeticism can live through." I rolled my eyes. Clearly this was just one of his things. He would build the foundation, get a splinter, beg for a pie, and go home.

Much to my displeasure, he stayed with it.

Bastard.

Not without my help of course. That crap about carrying every stone himself? Bullshit. He used a wheelbarrow. Although, to fuck with him, I would arrange the stones into patterns when he wasn't looking. My favourite was when he thought nature itself had a message for him. What a tool.

After a year of this nonsense, I stopped by again. He was still sticking to it. By this point I owed him a beer. But he brought up a good point.

"Say, Daniel… What am I to do when the taxes come? Surely they won't tax a meager abode built by my own two hands, with the sweat from my brow and the strength of my back…" He paused, for emphasis. Why I stomached him… I really hoped it would end up being funnier than it was. "But supposing they do. I haven't any money. I don't suppose you could be a gentleman…" He trailed off, hopefully.

I wasn't going to have any of that. My goddamned whisky money, none for him. So I thought I would have some fun.

"Say… You want people to know about this, right? That's the whole scheme of things, isn't it, to prove you're better than the common folk living in a house competent people made." He started to interrupt me. "No, no don't try and refute it, it's true and we both know it. But won't you get _more_ attention if you were, say, a political prisoner?"

"How do you mean?" Great, the egocentric douche was intrigued.

"Make up some cause. Say you won't pay for that reason. I don't know, slavery or the war with Mexico or something. Don't stand up for yourself, they'll hate that. Heheh."

Greatly to my displeasure, he did what I suggested and was successful. He wrote that damned paper, _Civil Disobedience_, which inspired both Gandhi and Martin Luther King. So in a round about way, I helped to cause the Civil Rights movement in America, and Britain's overthrowal in India. Not even close to being worth the torching of his house as soon as he was arrested. Or the pie and whisky money.

The reason why I open with this story, is because it is one of the very few sparks of good I did in the world. Every other bad thing that happened throughout history, I'm sure it can somehow be linked to me. This one instance almost balanced the French Revolution. So I had to start one in Russia. Bolsheviks were fun times.

But more on that later.


End file.
